


Love and Darkness

by calenmir



Series: The Hobbit and the King [3]
Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: AU-Fili and Kili die but Thorin survives, Angst, Bath Sex, Bathing/Washing, Beorn's Hall, Canonical Character Death, Captivity, Falling In Love, Fluff, Graphic Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Insanity, Laketown, M/M, Minor Injuries, Mirkwood Forest, Oral Sex, sick hobbit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-04
Updated: 2013-02-18
Packaged: 2017-11-28 05:17:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/670693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calenmir/pseuds/calenmir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This part of the series is going to cover the events of The Hobbit from Thorin's perspective, as his relationship with Bilbo progresses....</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Not Half of Anything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin doesn't know how he feels about Bilbo. After the night of love they shared in Rivendell (In "To Command a King") and then Thorin's attempt to drive the hobbit back to safety by his cruelty, Thorin doesn't quite know how Bilbo feels about him, either. Good thing Beorn has such a nice bath house...a hot bath can be very relaxing, they say....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, the porn-without-plot I wrote in To Command a King and then the headcanon-exploration of A Flawed Blade have somehow tried to become an actual coherent series exploring these two characters and their relationship. So, uh, here's some plot and also some porn...enjoy!
> 
> Also, I completely made up Beorn's hot-spring bath house. There are quite a few buildings at his compound; I just decided he needed a bath house, too, and being close to the Misty Mountains there could be some geologic phenomena around...

“ _Because you don’t have one. A home. It was taken from you. But I will help you take it back, if I can_.”

Those words had rung through Thorin’s mind, over and over without ceasing, ever since the hobbit had spoken them. How was it possible, he wondered, that Bilbo could be at once a kitten and a mountain lion? A grocer, and a warrior? He was…a fascinating creature, at once soft and domineering. 

And of course, Thorin could not forget the feel of Bilbo’s hands and mouth on his body, the feel of Bilbo’s cock inside him. It had been…words failed him. A unique experience, certainly, unprecedented in Thorin’s life. Never before… _never_ …had he allowed himself to be so thoroughly dominated by another, and never could he have anticipated how much he would enjoy it. Remembering it now, he felt his cock tingle and twitch, expressing interest despite Thorin’s battered and exhausted state. He jerked his mind away from that particular memory.

“ _Because you don’t have one. A home. It was taken from you. But I will help you take it back, if I can_.”

Thorin dropped his head into his hands, grinding the heels of his palms against his closed eyes. The halfling would not leave his head! How had Bilbo wormed his way so deeply into Thorin’s heart in so little time?

Thorin could not understand what he had done to deserve such loyalty from Bilbo. They had shared one night of love in Rivendell, yes. But both before and since then, Thorin had been nothing but terrible, and he knew it. He had risked his own life to save Bilbo’s on the mountain-side, and then had yelled at him, saying awful things. It was his own fear speaking, though; he found himself terrified that Bilbo would be hurt—or worse—while under his protection. Thorin had lost so many people already…the thousands of his people lost to Smaug’s attack, then his grandfather, his father, his brother Frerin, his sister Dis’s husband…and somehow, the thought of losing Bilbo too…it was unbearable. 

And yet Bilbo had come back. As hard as Thorin had tried to drive him away, to drive him back to safety and away from harm, Bilbo had come back. 

“I don’t have time for this!” Thorin growled under his breath. Years of contented bachelorhood, years of easy, casual liaisons, and now, _now_ , someone managed to get under his skin. Now, during the quest to reclaim Erebor, the most important thing Thorin could ever…would ever…do. Why now, when he needed a focus and determination sharp as Orcrist, did Bilbo have to come along and dull his edge?

“Thorin?” Dwalin asked. “Time for what?”

“Nothing,” Thorin snapped. “It’s nothing.” 

Dwalin looked at him skeptically, but did not speak. Thorin was grateful for his old friend’s silence. He stood and stretched. These days of forced inactivity at Beorn’s hall were wearing on him, though he knew that they all needed the rest. But nothing in the hall was built to dwarf-scale; Beorn’s chair was large enough to easily hold half the Company. It was hard to find true comfort in such a place. But the sleeping platforms were lined with piles of thick furs—warg, if Thorin did not miss his guess—and the firepit in the hall’s center gave off a crackling heat. He had slept well and warm, despite his injuries.

“I will be in the bath house,” Thorin grunted. Suddenly the atmosphere in the hall was too dark, too close, more like a bear’s den than a place where people were meant to live. He needed to feel clean air on his face and hot water on his aching muscles. 

Beorn’s little compound was quite astonishing, really. The intelligent animals that served Beorn as servants were amazing enough, but to Thorin’s mind the bath house was the finest luxury. Beorn had constructed a small—for his size; it was quite large to the dwarves—cedarwood building around a natural spring of hot water that bubbled up out of the earth. He had hollowed out a pool for the hot water to collect in, a small channel directing the overflow out and away where it spilled harmlessly into the wilds outside the thorny hedge. There had been hot spring baths like this at Erebor but none in the Ered Luin, and Thorin had missed them dearly. 

He exited the hall by the southern door, opening onto the veranda. The sun was westering low over the Misty Mountains and the air was crisp and golden; everything seemed to glow from within. Thorin had always loved this hour of the day, when the entire world became a storehouse overflowing with golden treasure.

He leaned on the veranda railing for a long moment, looking out over Beorn’s gardens in the gilded light. This was a home, truly, as comfortable and well-kept in its way as had been Bilbo’s cozy smial. A wash of envy rolled across his tongue, bitter as wormwood, and he swallowed hard. He _would_ reclaim Erebor. His people deserved this kind of peace.

 

The bath house was fogged with steam, thick and swirling. Glazed windows in the walls let in the last of the late afternoon light and the steam was gilded in sun. Thorin took in a deep breath, feeling the moisture coat his lungs, and sighed with pleasure. He stripped off quickly; his outer layers he had left in the hall and it was but a moment’s work to remove and fold his trews and shirt. He folded them roughly and dropped them on his heavy boots, then stepped down into the tub, hissing as the hot water covered his bruises.

There was a ledge somewhat below the water’s surface; were Beorn to sit upon it the water would likely come to just about his waist. On Thorin’s shorter frame, the water came nearly to his throat. It was perfect. He sighed deeply, feeling his abused muscles relaxing immediately, and dropped his head back to rest on the wood-plank floor around the edge of the sunken tub, eyes closing.

Someone cleared his throat gently, a few feet away.

“Mahal!” Thorin swore, startling so hard he nearly slipped from the seat and came up sputtering water in a most undignified fashion.

“Sorry, sorry!” chirped Bilbo, his voice suspiciously bright. Ancestors, was the hobbit _laughing_ at him? “I thought you saw me!”

“Clearly not,” Thorin huffed, blinking the last of the water out of his eyes. The hobbit _was_ laughing, he was sure of it now.

“I guess it was because of the steam,” Bilbo said, scooting a bit closer to Thorin along the underwater bench.

“I would assume so,” Thorin agreed, pushing damp hair out of his face.

They fell quiet then. The silence lingered between them, tension thrumming through it like a snapped bowstring. Thorin opened his mouth, then closed it again. Beside him, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bilbo do the same. The silence stretched further and further, the weight of things unsaid becoming unbearable.

Finally Thorin could not stand it any longer. “Hobbit, I…I wanted to ask you….”

“Yes?” Bilbo said, smiling.

“How is it you’re not completely underwater right now? You are shorter than I!” Thorin burst out.

“Oh!” Bilbo laughed, looking rather sheepish. “Uh...Beorn lent me a box.”

Thorin stared at the hobbit for a long moment, then began to laugh helplessly, deep rolling resonant laughter that trembled the water around them. Tears of mirth pricked at his eyes and his stomach muscles began to ache and still he laughed. Mahal, but it felt good. He was dimly aware that Bilbo was laughing, too, and that felt good as well. Laughter should be shared.

Finally, his laughter subsided. He wiped at his eyes, pressing one hand flat against his tight stomach muscles. "Oh, Mahal...." he murmured.

"It is...good to see you laughing, Thorin," Bilbo said, his voice warm. "You should laugh more often. You are quite beautiful when you are happy."

The last aftershocks of Thorin's mirth stilled at that. He stared at the hobbit, who was somehow right beside him now.

"I...do not have much to be happy about, Bilbo," Thorin managed, finally.

Bilbo barked out a short laugh. "I find that hard to believe, Thorin. You have good friends...friends who would challenge a dragon simply because you ask it of them! You have a wonderful family who loves you! You have a life of importance in the Ered Luin, and you have a _purpose_ to your days, which is more than many have."

Thorin was quiet then. Bilbo's voice had been warm and wry, but his face had been filled with something strange...bitterness? With a sudden shock, Thorin understood that Bilbo was referring to himself...implying that Thorin had reasons for happiness that Bilbo himself did not. As he thought about it, Thorin realized he had never heard Bilbo talking about friends in Hobbiton. He had never mentioned family, except to say his parents were dead and his closest cousin was atrocious. And what could Bilbo possibly do with his days, except eat and read and sleep?

When he looked at Bilbo, his thoughts must have showed on his face, because the hobbit turned his face to the steaming water. "Uh, I mean...well...." Bilbo's voice trailed off miserably. Thorin's heart clenched.

Thorin placed a hand beneath Bilbo's chin and gently tipped the hobbit's face up. Reluctantly, Bilbo met his eyes. Thorin said, "I...was awake that night in the Misty Mountains. I heard what Bofur said to you...and...it is true. You _are_ one of us now, Bilbo, part of the Company. We are all of us family here, and all of us friends. And I should hope that as our official burglar, your days have some purpose...."

Bilbo didn't speak, but Thorin saw his eyes well up as he smiled, a smile of such heartbreakingly lovely hope and joy that Thorin could think of no other response but to kiss the hobbit.

So he did.

The hobbit's lips were soft and warm as Bilbo melted under his kiss. Thorin raked his fingers through Bilbo's wet hair, sliding one hand down to cup the back of the hobbit's neck and dropping the other to the small of his back, pressing hard, digging his fingers into Bilbo's muscles urgently.

Bilbo hissed and jerked away abruptly.

Thorin was at a loss. After everything they'd already shared, he had thought Bilbo would want this! He stared at Bilbo, disappointment and hurt welling up in him.

"Sorry, sorry. Not you, it's me," Bilbo said, his face pained. "I...I have some bruises there...I fell quite some distance in the goblin caves and my back is still quite sore!"

Thorin's disappointment became sudden anger. "You said nothing of this before! Did no one see to your injuries?" He surged to his feet on the bench, sending hot water splashing everywhere.

"Oh, do sit down, Thorin!" Bilbo said, his voice exasperated. "It's nothing, really! Just bruising!"

Thorin seized Bilbo by the shoulders and turned him, pulling the hobbit to his feet as well and ignoring his protestations. His breath caught in his throat when he saw Bilbo's back; the hobbit was splotched purple from the neck down his back and across his buttocks, and long shallow scratches criss-crossed his flesh. Gently, despite his anger and concern, Thorin probed at the bruising with his fingertips, listening carefully as Bilbo caught his breath and made small noises of pain.

Finally Bilbo pulled away and turned. "Thorin...." he started, but Thorin interjected.

"You do not have cracked ribs, as I feared, but this is not acceptable! You _must_ be more careful with yourself, halfling!" Thorin said, his voice low and intense.

"Halfling?" Bilbo said, his voice rising. "Halfling? You know, I have always hated that word! I am not _half_ of anything, Thorin! I am myself, full and complete and _not_ a child, _not_ weak or delicate! Have I not proven that to you time and again?" He was shouting by the end, his hands fisted in front of him.

Thorin paused, taken aback by Bilbo's vehemence. His anger drained away slowly.

"I...am sorry, Bilbo," Thorin said quietly. "You are correct; you are not weak. But...I cannot help but worry about you."

"Why?" Bilbo asked. Thorin opened his mouth but Bilbo lifted a hand to silence him. "Why, Thorin? The others have been wounded; they have as many bruises and scrapes as I do, or more. You yourself received injuries worse than mine! Why do you worry so much about one little halfling?" His voice twisted on the last word.

"Bilbo...I will not use that word again," Thorin said. "And...no, you are not half of anything, but you have swiftly become...all, to me." 

He fell silent, shocked not only by what he'd said, but by its truth. He dropped his face, afraid to meet Bilbo's eyes and see rejection there. A small wet hand slid through his beard; Thorin yielded to its pressure and lifted his head just in time to be met by Bilbo's lips. He left himself melt into the kiss, feeling Bilbo's chest wet and slippery against his own. He brought his arms up and around Bilbo's body, careful and gentle this time, one hand on Bilbo's hip and the other in his hair. Bilbo's teeth nipped lightly at Thorin's bottom lip and Thorin opened his mouth, the hobbit's tongue flickering in and out in a rhythm like sex. Thorin felt himself becoming aroused, and from the way the hobbit was pressing against him, Bilbo felt it, too. 

Without breaking the kiss, Bilbo moved his hips in a small circle and Thorin gasped, feeling the hobbit's arousal sliding against his own under the water. A warm tingle spread through Thorin's body and he struggled for self-control, fighting himself to keep from hurting Bilbo again. He remembered how it had felt to be dominated by the hobbit and managed to keep himself still, only moving his hips slightly in rhythm with Bilbo's own motions, only tugging lightly at the hobbit's curls as their tongues danced together.

Bilbo broke the kiss finally, breathing heavily. "I think...considering our conditions...that an encounter like our last one should be put off for now," Bilbo said slowly. "But we can still enjoy one another, if you'd like...." He trailed off, questioningly. Thorin could do nothing but nod. A wicked smile spread across Bilbo's face and he placed both hands on Thorin's chest, pushing him backward. Thorin felt the back of the tub hit his legs and he hoisted himself up onto the floor of the bath house, sitting with his legs still dangling into the hot water.

Bilbo moved to stand between his knees, running his small hands through the wet thatch of hair on Thorin's chest. He drew one finger down, following the trail of hair as it led across Thorin's stomach toward his groin. Thorin tensed, his stomach muscles twitching and jumping and a hot spike of arousal following behind Bilbo's fingers. 

When Bilbo's hand closed around the base of his cock, Thorin nearly jumped. He heard Bilbo chuckle quietly and then, oh, Mahal, Bilbo's mouth was on him. Bilbo started at the base, drawing his tongue up and along Thorin's length in one long swipe, then swirled that tongue around the head. He repeated this delicious motion several times and Thorin quivered under him. It was the lightest of touches and yet perfect, so perfect, hot and wet. He moaned raggedly.

And then, without warning, Bilbo swallowed him down. He could not quite take the entire length of Thorin, but much of it, more than Thorin would have expected. The hobbit was full of surprises and Thorin found himself wondering how many other men Bilbo had practiced on before today. When Bilbo started moving his mouth, all such thoughts fled. The hobbit used one hand as well, to make up for what he could not swallow, and he moved it in a sort of counter-rhythm to his mouth, stroking upward with his hand while he pushed downward with his lips, meeting in the middle before pulling away and there was never a moment without that delicious friction and heat. Thorin could feel the hobbit's tongue as well, busily moving in swirls and spirals as he drew his mouth upward and downward along Thorin's aching cock. Bilbo's other hand came up and tugged lightly at Thorin's balls and Thorin moaned. The sensations were quickly becoming overwhelming and he felt himself approaching his climax, his cock becoming, if such a thing was possible, even harder and his balls tightening with the unbearable pressure about to be released. 

Bilbo noticed, somehow, and sped up his movements, deepening his strokes and increasing the pressure of his tongue. It pushed Thorin over the edge he hovered upon and he arched hard, almost coming up off the bath house floor with a loud, ragged cry as waves of pleasure trembled through his muscles. Bilbo continued to lap and suck at him as he came, swallowing hard and emptying him out thoroughly. Finally the sensation of Bilbo's tongue at his head became almost exquisitely painful and Thorin gently pushed the hobbit away. 

Bilbo wiped one hand across his mouth. His lips were red and swollen and Thorin leaned forward and kissed them, tasting himself on the hobbit's tongue. "That was...wonderful," he murmured against Bilbo's lips, dropping one hand to the hobbit's groin. He was surprised not to find Bilbo aroused and pulled back to look at him questioningly.

Bilbo looked a bit sheepish. "This was about you, Thorin," he explained. "I...took care of myself under the water already...."

"I want to give you pleasure, Bilbo," Thorin rumbled quietly.

"Giving you pleasure _does_ give me pleasure!" Bilbo protested.

"Mmm," Thorin responded, lowering himself back into the bath and pulling the hobbit to sit on his lap. He wrapped his arms around Bilbo and murmured into his ear, "I will accept that for now, Bilbo. But next time...next time, you are mine."

"I am yours already, my king," Bilbo whispered, and Thorin tightened his arms around the hobbit who had somehow become his entire life.


	2. Madness, and Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin is in the prisons of Mirkwood, alone and beginning to despair. But a visit from an invisible hobbit gives him new hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, Thranduil fans...Thorin's rather bad-mouthing your king, here. But the bit about Thranduil being greedy for treasure is book-canon, I'm afraid.
> 
> Also book-canon is Bilbo's lie about how he got the ring...it was beginning to affect him, even then.
> 
> Thorin's truly beginning to go a bit mad, here, his obsession and pride taking over...and it's not going to be easy for him to recover....

Thorin had lost all track of time. The small cell the Elven King had thrown him into did not have windows and the corridor outside was uniformly dim at all times through some elvish trickery, so he could not even be certain how many days he had been in the cell, let alone what time of the day it might be. He had slept when tired, eaten when food was provided, stared in sullen silence at Thranduil when the pointy-eared bastard came to ask yet again why the Company was in Mirkwood. How many days? He had no idea. Three, at least, he was certain. But he feared it was more...perhaps _many_ more. 

Thorin did not want to admit it even to himself, but he was beginning to despair.

Perhaps it would not have been so bad if he had not gone straight from the darkness and starvation and despair of Mirkwood into this lightless cell and endless torments, but the two taken together would have worn on the strongest spirit. Everything now was darkness, hope long ago leeched away.

The worst torments were the ones he inflicted on himself, over and over in his mind. He had no idea what had become of the other members of the Company…his friends, his family…his hobbit. Were they still starving in the depths of the forest? Were they dead, fallen prey to some horrid beast or orc-pack? Had they abandoned the quest altogether when Thorin was lost to them, returned to the Ered Luin? Were they still looking for Thorin at all, or was he alone now, at last, as he had always somehow expected? He imagined horrible fates for them, unable to leave the idea alone. Each envisioned death was worse than the last, and he woke sweating from dreams that were drenched in blood.

The maddening thing was that Thranduil knew who Thorin was, and Thorin knew that Thranduil knew. They’d met too many times before. And if Thranduil knew Thorin, he also knew what Thorin was likely doing in this part of Middle Earth. So this torment, isolated in a windowless cell, fed sporatically, interrogated at seemingly random intervals…was for nothing but cruelty, so far as Thorin could reason it. If Thranduil truly knew why Thorin was here, then all he wanted now was just to make Thorin admit to it aloud. And so he had left Thorin here to rot in the darkness. 

Perhaps…perhaps if Thorin just told Thranduil about the quest, the elf-king would let him go. But no, no, he would want the key and the map and Thorin could not give those away. They had come to him from his father Thrain, lost and most likely dead, and Thorin could not give them away. Thorin dropped one hand to his boot, feeling the cleverly-hidden pocket sewn into the thickly furred bootshaft. They’d searched him, the elvish bastards, taken his weapons away. But they hadn’t found the key and the map, secret and safe as they were. Thorin traced the outline of the key over and over again, his heart pounding hard with relief to find it still there. They couldn’t take it from him, not again. He couldn’t lose Erebor again.

But he didn’t have Erebor, did he? Not yet. Not while he was trapped here, alone, without his nephews, without his Company, without his burglar. Maybe if he promised Thranduil a share in the treasure, the elf would let him go. Thranduil was just as greedy in his way as a dwarf; Thror’s wealth was the only reason that porcelain doll of an elf ever even pretended to show them respect. Thorin remembered how the elf used to eye the Arkenstone covetously, nearly drooling.

The Arkenstone! No! If he offered Thranduil treasure, the elf would insist on taking the Arkenstone! It was the King’s Jewel, _Thror’s_ Jewel, the Heart of the Mountain! No elf would sully it with his hands if Thorin could prevent it!

But how could Thorin prevent it? He was alone…his friends lost or dead…his freedom lost…his kingdom lost…how could he prevent anything, now? He was lost, as good as dead himself. 

Thorin found himself curled on the thin sleeping pallet, knees drawn up to his chest. He was rocking back and forth, staring into the dark corner of his cell. He had no idea how long he’d been sitting like this, nor what it was that had pulled him from his daze. A sound, maybe? Had someone called his name? Was Thranduil, that bastard, back to torment him in his loneliness?

“Thorin! Thorin Oakenshield!” someone hissed. It sounded like… _Bilbo_!

Thorin stood and moved toward the bars, his eyes searching the dim corridor outside his cell. It was empty. Yet he had clearly heard Bilbo saying his name. “Mahal,” he swore quietly. “I’ve gone mad.” He had suspected he was going mad; this only confirmed it.

“Thorin!” he heard again. “Thorin, no! I’m here! Reach out your hand!”

Thorin stared at the empty patch of air from which the voice seemed to issue, then lifted one of his hands. He gazed down at it for a long, considering moment, then reached forward, between the bars.

He felt his hand seized instantly between two small, soft hands. He _knew_ those hands, and he clenched his fingers shut reflexively, trapping one of them in his own calloused palm.

Those invisible hands pulled gently on his own and he allowed it to be guided, then pressed against what could only be Bilbo’s soft cheek. Thorin cupped that smooth warmth in his palm wonderingly, then stroked his fingers along the flesh he could not see and smoothed one thumb across invisible lips.

When he spoke, Thorin’s voice was rough and ragged with emotion. “What sorcery is this? You are too warm to be a wraith come to haunt me….” He pressed himself against the bars, trying to get as close as possible to that unseen presence, his heart racing.

“No, Thorin, I’m here…I’m here and I will get you out of this place, I swear it!” Bilbo said, his voice quiet but urgent. “I…found a ring in the Misty Mountains. Or, well, I won it. In a game of riddles with a strange, gangling creature. Not an orc; something else…. But I won and so he gave me the ring and showed me the way out. But the ring, Thorin…it makes you invisible when you wear it!”

“A ring of invisibility?” Thorin asked. “Why…why did you not speak of this before?”

Bilbo’s voice sounded vague, almost confused. “I…don’t know, really. Seemed like such a little thing. It…slipped my mind, I suppose.”

Thorin stared at the empty air, wishing he could see the hobbit’s face. There was something odd there, but he could not place it. But regardless… “With a ring like that, you will be a mighty burglar indeed,” Thorin said, at last. “But…how came you to this place?”

“The elves took us,” Bilbo said. “The others are here, all of them! They’ve been stashed in separate cells all over the building. It took me days to find them all, and even with the ring I have to be careful and quick. If someone stumbles over me, they’ll find me quick enough, invisible or no! We didn’t know where you were, Thorin! We feared something horrid had happened to you, the giant spiders or something worse! And then…I heard some of the guards talking about another dwarf, in the deepest and darkest cells. I knew it had to be you, Thorin. And it still took me some days to find you. I am sorry for that, not finding you sooner….”

Thorin heard the break in the hobbit’s voice and he stroked the hobbit’s cheek comfortingly. But… “Days?” Thorin asked. “How long? How long has it been?”

“Nearly two weeks,” Bilbo answered quietly. 

Thorin let out a breath. Two weeks. It was longer even than he’d feared. But to know that everyone was safe…that _Bilbo_ was safe…it was too much. To his dismay, Thorin felt his eyes well up, his body suddenly shaking. He felt one of the hobbit’s small hands slid up his cheek and he turned his face into it, feeling a sense of safety and comfort spread through his muscles at the contact. Bilbo would save him, would save them all. Thorin knew it. The tears spilled over then, sliding slow and hot down his roughly stubbled cheeks. He felt Bilbo’s fingers smooth them away.

“You will save us, Bilbo,” Thorin said, his voice low and urgent. “You must. The quest will be lost without you now.”

“Yes,” Bilbo agreed, simply. “Yes. I have the beginnings of a plan, but it will take some time to put together the details. And…I fear you will not like parts of it….”

“Whatever it takes, Bilbo, we will do!” Thorin said. “I am ashamed to admit it, but I had begun to despair. I had considered telling Thranduil of the quest, hoping he would free me…but no. We do not need to take that path now. Tell the others not to give in to despair, not to share anything with Thranduil!”

“None have, and none will,” Bilbo said. “I will make sure of that. They will take heart from knowing you are alive and safe, my king.”

“And you, Bilbo…are you safe? Are you well? Do you find food, and places to sleep?” Thorin asked, suddenly aware that, despite his captivity, in some ways his comfort was more assured than the hobbit’s, who must hide and creep in halls not built to hobbit-scale.

“I am,” Bilbo said. “It is not the easiest life, but I am managing!” He laughed lightly. Thorin’s heart thrummed in his chest, hearing that laughter. He had not realized until this moment how tightly woven his despair had been with the idea that Bilbo was lost to him. Those threads unloosed themselves now and new strength surged through his muscles. He straightened up, his shoulders squaring. Everything would be well.

A clang from down the corridor announced that the guards were making one of their oddly-timed visits. Bilbo’s hand snaked around behind his neck and pulled his head closer to the bars. Thorin felt the hobbit’s lips press against his own and he closed his eyes, abandoning himself briefly to the sensation, allowing himself to imagine a time when they would both be free and together. 

“I must go,” Bilbo whispered when he broke the kiss. “But I will come back. Wait for me, my king.”

And then he was gone, without a sound.

But Thorin smiled to himself, turning to meet the approaching elves with new hope in his heart. They would be free, and together.


	3. The Care and Feeding of Hobbits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo has fallen ill after their misadventures on the river. Thorin takes it upon himself to take care of his sick hobbit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Purely fluffy, with some hurt/comfort aspects. Thorin plays nursemaid! And Bilbo is a very bad patient...
> 
> Bilbo's bad cold in Laketown is book canon....

Thorin pushed back from the table and laced his fingers together over his belly, feeling well-contented. Their initial reception in Laketown had left something to be desired; the Master of Laketown in particular had been cold and unimpressed. But popular opinion being strongly in their favor, the Master had relented and given them the hero's welcome Thorin knew they deserved. 

The house that had been given over to their use was a fine one, with bedchambers for all the Company and then to spare. It had come complete with a staff of servants; the cook was talented, though not on a par with Bombur, and Thorin was full and warm and comfortable for the first time in many long days and weeks. 

And it was all thanks to Bilbo, his wonder, his treasure. Thorin would never have believed it--had _not_ believed it, back in Bag End--but Bilbo had turned out to be more important, more amazing, more integral to their quest and to Thorin himself than Gandalf had ever intimated.

He looked down to the other end of the long table, where Bilbo sat opposite him in the place of second-most honor, according to dwarven custom. The little hobbit had been quiet all evening, exhausted, Thorin presumed. He was seated with Bofur to his left hand and Bombur to his right. The brothers were laughing uproariously, as per usual, but Bilbo was sitting still and quiet, toying idly with his fork. Thorin was surprised to see how much food remained on the hobbit's plate; from what he knew of hobbits, even seven meals a day was considered barely sufficient and Bilbo had to be as hungry as the rest of the Company after his days scraping out an existence underfoot and invisible in Mirkwood's halls.

As Thorin watched, Bombur noticed the food left on Bilbo's plate, too. He said something to Bilbo that Thorin could not quite hear, and Bilbo made a vague sort of waving gesture. Bombur scooped the hobbit's leftover food on to his own plate and tucked in with a relish.

"Bilbo!" Thorin said, his deep voice booming across the room and cutting through the conversation around him like a sword through orc necks. 

"Eh?" Bilbo responded hazily into the sudden silence, blinking owlishly.

"Are you not hungry, Master Burglar?" Thorin asked, becoming concerned now.

"Oh...no...not really...." Bilbo answered, waggling his hands.

Thorin could see from the expressions on the Company's faces that they shared his concern. Never in all their journeys had the hobbit _ever_ refused food. 

Bofur leaned toward Bilbo, his eyes sharp. "Yer lookin' mighty pale, there, lad," he said, then placed one calloused hand flat on the hobbit's face. "And yer burnin' up!"

Thorin surged to his feet, the heavy wooden chair toppling to the floor behind him. He was at Bilbo's side in four long strides, shouldering Bofur out of his way. He knelt beside the hobbit's chair. This close, he could see how pale and drawn Bilbo's face appeared, could see the beads of sweat along his hairline, could see the dark shadows smudged under his eyes. Thorin pressed a hand to Bilbo's brow as Bofur had and hissed when he felt the furnace heat of the ailing hobbit.

"You are ill!" Thorin cried. "Why did you not speak?"

"Oh, it's nothing," Bilbo said quietly. "Just getting a cold, I think. The barrels, the river, you know."

"You have a fever," Thorin declared flatly. "You are ill." Without another word, he scooped Bilbo up out of his chair, cradled the hobbit in his arms, and began to carry him toward the stairs. 

Bilbo kicked his feet and squirmed. " _What_ do you think you're doing, Thorin?" he asked angrily, fighting to get down.

Thorin just tightened his arms around Bilbo, ignoring the kicking feet, and answered, "You are ill. You must rest. I will take care of you."

As he started up the stairs, Thorin turned his head and gave a look to Oin. The healer dwarf nodded sharply and stood to follow the hobbit and the king to the second floor.

"This is ridiculous," Bilbo muttered from within Thorin's arms, then suddenly sneezed three times in succession. He groaned. "Oh, that hurt."

"Ridiculous, is it?" Thorin asked with a fond snort. "We cannot have our burglar ill and useless to us, Bilbo!"

"Burglar?" Bilbo asked, smiling archly. "Is that all I am to you, my king?"

"You know it isn't," Thorin said quietly, pushing open the door to his own bedchamber.

Bilbo craned his neck to look around as they entered. "This isn't my room!" he complained weakly.

"No," Thorin agreed, "It isn't. It's mine. You will need watching and caring for, Bilbo. This is...easier." 

Thorin left unsaid that Bilbo should have been sharing his room and his bed from the start. Every member of the Company had been given his own room in this over-large house and Thorin had needed to quash his own disappointment that they would not all double up and share. It was not common knowledge, the relationship he and Bilbo were building, but Mahal bless it, he no longer cared about secrecy. His hobbit needed him. Bilbo had given him warmth and comfort and hope in the depths of Mirkwood and now he, Thorin, would return the favor.

"I don't need watching over, and I don't need caring for!" Bilbo protested as Thorin pulled back the bedcovers and nestled Bilbo gently under the soft sheets and thick coverlet. "I have survived perfectly well on my own, you know, since my parents died! I can take care of myself."

"But you are not on your own now," Thorin said quietly. "You are ill and you will be taken care of by your friends. So do be quiet, because this is not a debate!"

"You think you're quite something, don't you?" Bilbo asked, peevishly. "Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain! " _This is not a debate_!" Bah. You aren't the only one with a fine heritage, you know. I am noble, too, as things are reckoned in the Shire! I am a Took and the Tooks have been rulers of the Shire since the year 740, when Isumbras Took became Thain! Not a debate, indeed. Hmph." 

"I think I had heard that, yes," Thorin said, his mouth twisting into a fond smile. "But I believe I have heard that you are also a Baggins, and thus quite fond of comfort." He placed one rough hand on Bilbo's head, winding his fingers through the hobbit's sweat-damp curls. Almost despite himself, it seemed, Bilbo relaxed, turning his head into Thorin's hand and smiling softly.

"Well, that's true," Bilbo said, his eyes half-lidded now, his voice becoming drowsy.

Oin bustled in then and stopped short when he saw Thorin perched on the side of the bed and caressing the sleepy hobbit's mane. He gave them a sharp-eyed, assessing stare for a moment while Thorin sat frozen, feeling oddly more exposed and vulnerable than he did in any battle. 

Then Oin grinned fiercely and said, "Oh there you are! I expected to find you in the hobbit's room, but this is better, yes. Bigger bed, more comfortable for a sick hobbit. Better fireplace, as well. Have to keep sick hobbits warm, you do."

Thorin let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. "That was my thinking, yes," he answered. His voice was gruff.

"I'm sure," Oin answered, his voice suspiciously bland. "Now move aside, lad. I'll have to examine him, determine a treatment."

Feeling his face heat and hoping it did not show, Thorin slid to the floor and moved to the other side of the bed, where he could observe without being in Oin's way. The herbalist laid his hands on Bilbo's face and cheeks, made the hobbit open his mouth and peered inside, placed his ear-horn on the hobbit's back and listened as Bilbo breathed in and out. Thorin stood, tapping his foot impatiently as Bilbo was variously poked and prodded. The hobbit himself accepted Oin's ministrations with poor grace, sighing and grunting in annoyance but moving as directed.

"Well?!" Thorin burst at last, unable to contain himself any longer. 

"Patience, lad," Oin grunted. "He's got a fever, some congestion. Doesn't seem too serious. I'll make up an infusion for him that should help. We're going to want to make sure he doesn't dehydrate, so lots of water. Solid food may not appeal, but he needs his strength so I'll talk to the cook about sending up a nice hearty broth. This should pass quickly, I think, if we let him rest a while."

"Well, what are you waiting for?" Thorin demanded. "The sooner we begin, the sooner he'll be well! Make your tea! Order your broth!"

Oin cast him a withering glance, but bowed his head respectfully enough. "I'll see it done. In the meantime, may I suggest building up the fire?"

After Oin had gone to brew his potions, Thorin moved to the room's large hearth and added wood carefully, building the fire to a roaring blaze. Bilbo lay in the large bed watching him.

"I like seeing you like this, Thorin," came Bilbo's quiet voice. "You are so hardened by the life you've led; it is nice to see your kindness showing through."

Thorin moved to Bilbo's bedside and laid a hand on his cheek. "Not many can get through, Bilbo," he admitted. "You are a wonder; it wasn't even hard for you to pierce my armor, it seems."

"I am a harder man than I seem, I suppose," Bilbo said, then started coughing raggedly. Thorin leapt up into the bed and supported the hobbit as he coughed, feeling the small body wracked with convulsions. 

"Where is Oin with that tea?" Thorin cried out in frustration just as the door swung back open. 

Oin and a human serving maid walked through, each with a tray. Oin's held a teapot and mug along with a small wooden bowl heaped with herbs. The serving maid's held a large earthenware pitcher, a drinking glass, and a bowl of something that steamed and filled the room with a rich scent. After settling her tray on the room's large table, the serving maid bowed and left. Oin stood, watching Thorin, tapping his foot.

"What is it, man?" Thorin demanded.

"He needs his rest, Thorin," Oin said, reprovingly. "The sooner you leave, the sooner I can begin ministering to him."

"I am not leaving," Thorin snapped. "Tell me what to do. I will take care of Bilbo, I alone."

Oin blinked in surprise, looking dubious. When Thorin growled in the back of his throat, though, the healer quickly explained, "Bilbo should drink this broth while it's hot. After that, make Bilbo a cup of this tea every few hours; there's a kettle by the fireplace. When he isn't drinking tea, he should be drinking water." Oin indicated the pitcher and glass. "If he is asleep, let him stay asleep; don't wake him to make him drink. If he feels too hot, place a wet towel on his forehead. If his fever comes with shivers, warm him with the blankets or body heat if necessary. Don't let the fire die down too far; we want to keep a fairly consistent temperature in the room if possible."

"Understood," Thorin said, his voice low. He ushered Oin out and shut the door hard behind him, pressing his forehead to the smooth wood for a long moment before he could turn and face the sick hobbit. Mahal, he was trembling!

 

Bilbo was fussy, unwilling to eat the broth on his own. "But I'm not hungry, Thorin!" he whined. Finally Thorin resorted to feeding the hobbit himself, spoonful by spoonful until most of the broth was in him. 

"Now tea!" Thorin snapped, hanging the kettle to boil. The teapot had a cunning little strainer built into it--dwarf-made, he was sure--and Thorin measured out the herbs carefully.

"Ugh, it smells!" Bilbo complained when Thorin thrust the mug at him. Privately Thorin agreed; the tea had an unpleasantly sharp, acrid scent. 

"Medicines always taste bad," Thorin said patiently. "My mother once told me it's what makes them work. Drink, Bilbo. Drink, and then you can sleep for a while."

Bilbo grumbled but sipped steadily at his tea until he had finished the mug. Thorin took it from him and set it aside. "Sleep now, Bilbo. I will be here when you wake."

Bilbo smiled up at him drowsily. "You are good at this, Thorin."

Thorin just smiled back and stroked Bilbo's hair until the hobbit's eyes closed and his breathing deepened. Then he pulled the room's most comfortable chair up beside the bed and curled up in it, his own eyes closing.

 

Sometime later, minutes or hours, Thorin woke hearing Bilbo coughing. He leapt to his feet and filled the glass, bringing the water to Bilbo. He climbed into the bed to hold the hobbit up so he could drink. Bilbo gulped at the water thirstily, then sagged back down into the bed. 

"Thorin, I'm cold," Bilbo said. It was true; despite the fire and the heavy coverlet, the hobbit's teeth were chattering. Thorin felt his face; Bilbo's skin was still hot but he was shaking.

"I'll build the fire up," Thorin said, and moved to get down.

"No...!" Bilbo protested. "Just...stay here, with me? Hold me?"

Thorin stared down at Bilbo's pale, sweat-streaked face, his blue eyes dark and his body trembling. "Of course."

Thorin stripped off his shirt and pulled Bilbo's own sweat-damp shirt off over his head. Then he climbed into the bed and nestled himself in behind the hobbit, pressing his bare chest to Bilbo's bare back and wrapping one arm tight around Bilbo's chest. He felt Bilbo sigh heavily and relax by increments, all the tension going out of his body and the trembling ceasing. Thorin sighed too and pressed a single kiss to the nape of Bilbo's neck.

"I love you, Thorin," Bilbo murmured, his voice low and sleepy.

"I love you, Bilbo," Thorin replied quietly, his heart full.


	4. Cure for the Common Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo's beginning to feel better and decides what he really needs to cure his cold is...Thorin!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sexy times, wooo! Rimming and anal sex! I kinda planned to put this in the last chapter but it was too long...so it gets its very own chapter! Smut for the win!

Thorin woke slowly, morning light pouring through the room's windows like honey. He was wrapped around Bilbo's sleeping form, their torsos bare and pressed tight together, a thin film of sweat slippery between them.

Thorin did not move, simply lay there trying not to disturb the sleeping hobbit. It had been several days now since Bilbo had fallen ill and Thorin had taken it upon himself to play nursemaid, and they had slept like this and woken like this each morning. Thorin was beginning to dream that they could sleep like this and wake like this every morning for the rest of their lives. Everyone in the Company now knew of their relationship, and none seemed to disapprove...not that Thorin would have changed anything if they did, particularly, but it was nice to feel supported by his closest friends.

He allowed himself to dream, then, of a time when Erebor was reclaimed and the Arkenstone winked and glittered from its proper place above his throne and Fili and Kili stood to his right hand as Heir and Prince and Bilbo sat on a second throne to his left, Consort and partner and even co-ruler, perhaps.

Bilbo would make a good ruler, Thorin had decided. They had spent much of the last few days talking quietly, when Bilbo was not sleeping, and Thorin had learned much about what made his hobbit so remarkable.

"I am sorry I snapped at you earlier," Bilbo had said at one point. "But what I said is true; members of my family have been ruling the Shire since 740 in Shire-Reckoning...I think it would be year 2340 of the Third Age, if my calculation is correct? And even beyond that...well, Bag End may not look like much to you; it is no palace, certainly. But by Shire standards, it is a fine manse indeed, quite the envy of the neighborhood. I am considered wealthy and eccentric in Hobbiton, and have never needed to work for my living. And...living by myself, as I long have, I have been accustomed to...to having my own will hold true in most things."

"Every doily just so, every knife perfectly sharp?" Thorin had teased.

Bilbo had groaned slightly, but then nodded. "Yes. Tease if you must, but...things like that become important to a person when they have nothing else."

Watching the hobbit sleep now, Thorin made a vow to himself that Bilbo’s life would never again be so empty that doilies were all he had to value. He would drape Bilbo in gems when the regained Erebor, that was certain, but he’d give the hobbit a purpose as well…as Consort, the ordering of the royal household would be Bilbo’s task. He ought to be good at such a thing, Thorin reasoned, having run his own smial so tightly.

Eyes half-lidded, Thorin saw it all unfolding. As king, he would oversee the infrastructure of Erebor, seeing to the rebuilding of the great halls, the re-opening of mines and smithies, the re-arming of warriors. And as Consort, Bilbo would take care of Erebor’s people, making certain they were fed and housed in comfort, that their concerns were heard and addressed, that they were happy in their rulers. At the end of each long day, Thorin and Bilbo would fall together into a large bed like this one and laugh and fuck and talk. It would be everything that Thorin had never let himself dream of before, everything he’d always wanted.

Lost in his daydream, Thorin was startled when Bilbo sighed and shifted against him, still asleep. The small movement pressed Bilbo’s body tighter against Thorin’s, and the dwarf was suddenly acutely aware that only their smallclothes separated Bilbo’s small ass from his own morning-hardened cock. Unable to help himself, he cocked his hips slightly, sliding himself against Bilbo’s softness through the two thin layers of fabric. He stifled a moan as the tingling warmth of arousal spread through his groin.

Suddenly realizing how inappropriate it was, though…Bilbo was sick! And asleep!... he forced himself back to stillness. There would be time for this when Bilbo was well again.

“Tease,” Bilbo whispered.

Thorin started. “I…uh…didn’t know you were awake….” he murmured, flustered. Bilbo bucked against him, pressing his ass even harder against Thorin’s arousal and Thorin gasped and bit at his lip.

“Enough with the nasty tea,” Bilbo said, his voice teasing. “I know something else you can give me that will make me feel so much better….”

“No,” Thorin protested, though it was the last thing he wanted to say. “You’re sick! We shouldn’t….”

“I am so much better, Thorin,” Bilbo purred, wiggling his ass against Thorin’s now-aching arousal. “You’ve made me better. And if you fuck me, I'll be better still...”

Thorin groaned deep in his throat, his fingers clenching convulsively, digging into Bilbo’s chest. The hobbit gasped and ground himself against Thorin, cocking his hips so that Thorin’s arousal slide between the globes of his ass. The thin fabric separating them was soaked through already, with their shared sweat and the fluid of Thorin’s arousal, and it clung unpleasantly to Thorin’s cock. He needed to either back away from this altogether or just strip the offending garments away and have at it.

“Thorin!” Bilbo said, his voice demanding. “I want you to _take me_.”

And with that, all conscious thought fled. Thorin was aware, somewhere in his mind, that he was biting at the back of Bilbo’s neck as he wrenched at the fabric separating them. It tore suddenly with a satisfyingly loud rip and then, oh, sweet Mahal, his cock was sliding along the soft flesh of Bilbo’s ass and they were both groaning and bucking, moaning incoherently.

“Oh, Bilbo,” Thorin ground out, his voice ragged. “What you do to me…how I’ve wanted this….”

“You have been gentle with me for days,” Bilbo said, rolling to his stomach and tilting his hips so that the globe of his ass angled invitingly toward Thorin. “Now, I want you to be rough with me, my king.”

Thorin rolled to kneel between Bilbo’s spread thighs. He gripped the hobbit’s hips hard, his fingers denting the soft flesh. There would be bruises there later, he knew. For a long moment he just stared down at Bilbo’s firm ass, drinking in the sight. Bilbo’s skin was pale, nearly hairless. There was a single dark freckle just at the base of Bilbo’s spine where the flesh dimpled around his bones. 

Thorin leaned forward and pressed a kiss to that freckled spot and Bilbo giggled, jerking under him. Apparently the hobbit was ticklish. Thorin stored that away for another time and bit instead, dragging his teeth along the soft flesh, nipping and nibbling along the hobbit’s ass. Bilbo whined and jerked in his hands, letting out sharp, shrill cries each time Thorin’s teeth pricked at his skin. 

“All right?” Thorin asked, panting with need but knowing he had to make sure. Bilbo made an incoherent sound of approval in response. Thorin grinned fiercely and bit hard at the inner curve of Bilbo's ass, near his tight entrance.

Bilbo nearly shrieked and bucked hard, nearly dislodging Thorin. “Oh, _yes_ , Thorin,” he moaned, his voice dark and raw. “Now…use your tongue,” he demanded.

“Pushy creature,” Thorin said, chuckling low and dark. But he complied, dragging his tongue along the cleft of Bilbo’s ass, flicking the tip of it lightly around the hobbit's tight entrance before dragging his tongue lower and caressing the patch of skin between the base of Bilbo's cock and his ass.

Bilbo nearly toppled, his legs quivering. "Oh, Mahal!"

Thorin spared a moment to smile; the hobbit had picked up his own habit of swearing by the dwarves' maker. 

He brought one of his hands down to tug lightly at Bilbo's balls while he massaged that sensitive patch of skin with his tongue. Bilbo squirmed under him and Thorin saw that the hobbit had brought one hand to his arousal and was stroking at it erratically, quick short jerks.

"Uh-uh!" Thorin said reprovingly, pulling the hobbit's hand away. Bilbo groaned with thwarted need and the sound sent a stab of desire spiraling through the dwarf's gut.

Quickly, Thorin dipped his head back to Bilbo's ass and, tensing his tongue to a point, thrust the tip of it inside the hobbit. Bilbo gasped and made a sound like a strangled scream. Thorin moved slowly, dipping his tongue in and out of the hobbit, gently working him open.

Bilbo pushed back hard and Thorin's tongue slipped further in. The hobbit was moaning and muttering incoherently under him and Thorin's erection throbbed almost painfully with need. He continued fucking the hobbit open with his tongue, lapping and sucking until everything was slick and loose and he simply could not take it any longer. 

Thorin threw himself from the bed, cursing his lack of foresight, and scrabbled in Bilbo's pack for the small bottle of oil he kept there. Regaining the bed, he slicked his fingers with the oil and slipped one thick forefinger into Bilbo. There was little resistance, unsurprisingly, and Bilbo arched under him, pressing back against Thorin's hand.

"More!" Bilbo demanded. Thorin added a second finger slowly and moved the two together inside the hobbit, curling and twisting them to seek the sensitive spot deep inside. He knew when he'd found it, Bilbo jerked like a hooked fish and wailed, every muscle in his back corded tight.

"More!" Bilbo demanded again. "Fuck me, Thorin!"

Panting now, Thorin did not have it in him to draw this out any further. He pulled his fingers free and slicked his own taut arousal thickly, then lined up the head and slowly began to push into Bilbo. He heard the hobbit hiss with pain at the initial stretch, but when he would have slowed, Bilbo pushed back against him greedily. Thorin let out a breath and pushed forward until he was all the way inside, his hips flush against Bilbo's ass.

"Oh, Mahal, you feel amazing!" he growled. The hobbit was perfect, hot and tight and slick and Thorin was already so close, amazingly close just from this.

"So fuck me already," Bilbo said, arching his body and cocking his hips, somehow managing to draw himself along Thorin's length and then thrusting back hard, fucking Thorin's cock and in complete control of the pace and depth despite his position beneath the dwarf.

Thorin's eyes rolled back in his head and his mouth fell open. Remembering himself suddenly, he began to move with the hobbit's pace, thrusting hard into him. He leaned forward, angling his hips and seeking that sensitive place. The hobbit made a strangled sound when he found it, and Thorin could see his hands clenching convulsively in the bedclothes.

"Harder, Thorin!" Bilbo demanded. "Fuck me harder!"

Thorin growled and slammed his hips hard against the hobbit's ass, over and over. "Yes...yes, that's perfect!" Bilbo wailed. "Oh...oh Mahal yes....!"

Thorin felt his arousal begin to crest and he wrapped one hand tight around the base of his cock, struggling not to climax before Bilbo did. He did not have long to wait, though; within a few more hard thrusts Bilbo was howling and panting, crying Thorin's name over and over as he spent into the sheets. The hobbit's body tightened convulsively around him and Thorin released his hold on his own cock, feeling his balls tighten almost immediately as he reached his own release and he bellowed wildly as the glorious feeling swept through his muscles.

They collapsed forward together onto the bed, Thorin's softening cock still inside Bilbo. Slowly, he pulled himself free, wincing sympathetically when the hobbit hissed slightly. Turning to his side, he pulled Bilbo to him, cradling the hobbit's sweat-soaked body against his own. Very gently, Thorin pressed a kiss to the back of Bilbo's neck.

"Mmm," Bilbo sighed, nestling himself more comfortably within the circle of Thorin's arms. "I feel better already."


	5. Beyond the Count of Grief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Battle of Five Armies. Fili and Kili fall to Azog's fury while Thorin watches, and a small invisible hobbit comes to Thorin's aid. 
> 
> AU in that Thorin survives...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh god why did I write this?! So sorry...so sad!
> 
> Trigger warning for graphic violence and canonical character death. Nothing at all happy about this chapter, guys.

" _Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mênu_!" Thorin bellowed as he swung his heavy blade, taking off the head of an orc. 

The dwarves of his Company echoed him, each fighting his own battle. As Thorin watched, Kili shot arrow after arrow, each flying true and piercing a misshapen foe. Fili was in full berserker mode, dual swords flashing, face contorted into a feral snarl.

Thorin turned back just in time to parry a notched orc blade and step inside the orc’s guard. He shouldered hard against the orc, knocking the beast to the ground before stabbing down through its neck and releasing a gout of black blood.

Thorin welcomed the battle. He could lose himself in the fighting, stop thinking finally…stop remembering how he had been betrayed.

 _Betrayed_!

Thorin parried and thrust.

 _Betrayed by the one he’d dreamed would sit by his side in triumph_!

He spun, slicing through an orc neck.

 _He had lost the Heart of the Mountain and his own heart, in the same fell stroke_!

He ducked, swinging his blade low and twisting to avoid the black ropes of orc guts that followed his sword’s path.

 _Bilbo! That creeping, sneaking son of a rat_!  
A hot line of fire burned along his upper arm and Thorin twisted, sinking his sword into the chest of the orc who’d nicked him.

 _How, why could Bilbo have done it? Why, Mahal, why_?!

He roared in wordless fury and charged a knot of orcs besieging a pair of dwarves fighting back-to-back and hemmed in, scattering the foes and removing limbs with every stroke of his heavy blade. The dwarves shouted their thanks and lay about them viciously.

Thorin moved on and suddenly found himself in an eddy of stillness, no foes nearby. He paused, panting, wiping black orc blood from his face with the back of one hand. He turned a slow circle, taking in the battle field, searching for Azog. He knew the Pale Orc was here somewhere; he could almost smell the Defiler’s filth on the air.

And then, Thorin saw him. Azog stood some yards away, shoulders squared and one arm outstretched, staring back at him with his lips twisted in a vicious grin. As if in a dream, Thorin’s mind slowly absorbed what Azog held; it was déjà vu of the most brutal kind, the Battle of Azanulbizar come again. Only this time, the hair into which Azog’s fingers were twisted was not grey, but golden. The face was not lined, but youthful. The expression was the same, though…pain and horror and fear. 

Thorin stood frozen, staring across the bloodied and torn earth into the dead eyes of his eldest nephew, his sword loose in suddenly nerveless fingers.

A dark shape barreled into Thorin’s field of vision then, long hair flying, bow discarded in favor of a sword.

“Noooo!” Thorin screamed, but it was too late. In an almost casual gesture, Azog flung out his hand, the hand that was no longer there, the hand that Thorin had taken…the hand that had been replaced by a cruelly barbed iron trident.

The tines of that trident tore through Kili’s throat, the dwarf’s own momentum pushing him further onto the points. Thorin could hear the wet gurgle from where he stood, the sound cutting through the riot of battle around them.

His frozen horror shattered then. Thorin gripped his sword-hilt with new strength and, gathered himself for what he knew was likely his last charge. Everything he cared for was lost to him now; his hobbit a betrayer, his nephews and heirs dead in their own blood, his line broken. He had nothing left to lose.

Slowly at first, and then with gathering speed and fury, he started toward Azog, his sword held ready. The Pale Orc grinned fiercely and flung Fili’s head away. It rolled toward Thorin but he refused to acknowledge it, refused to watch it spin as he had watched Thror’s. He would not give Azog that satisfaction.

“Khazâd ai-mênu!” he shrieked as he picked up speed. Azog settled himself into a defensive stance and waited, notched blade at the ready.

Just before they would have closed in combat, however, Azog stumbled sideways, roaring in pain, his blade dropping from his hand. It was as though he had been hit from one side by a foe, but no foe was visible within the bubble of their combat. Thorin saw that a black gash had opened on the orc’s thigh, gouts of blood spraying forth. The artery had been nicked, he guessed, though by what weapon?

Azog flung out his hand and it seemed he connected with some solid object, but Thorin still could not see anything.

He knew what it was, though. Bilbo. Bilbo, wearing that damned ring. Why, after his betrayal and Thorin’s anger, had Bilbo risked himself on the battlefield? Why, after Thorin had dangled the hobbit over the side of the Mountain, threatened to kill him, had Bilbo flung himself between Thorin and Azog once again? Thorin could not understand it, his mind fogged with pain and grief and battle-lust.

All he knew was that he could not lose this opportunity. His foe was injured, losing blood quickly, weakening. Orcs were stronger than men; a cut to the femoral artery would kill a man within three minutes, but Azog was still on his feet, though faltering.

Thorin let out a cry, all his rage and pain gushing from him in the sound, and swung his sword. Azog’s head went flying, blood spraying out from the stump. The orc’s body stood upright for a long moment, seeming not to realize it was dead, then suddenly fell forward with a resounding thud.

Thorin slumped to his knees, staring down at the body of his fallen nemesis. He could not believe it was over, finally. His sword fell from his fingers and clattered on the ground. In that moment, all defenses down, anyone could have killed him and he might even have welcomed it.

But a sudden cheer roused him from his stupor. Dwalin, Balin, Bofur, and Bifur were suddenly beside him, lifting him to his feet and thrusting his blade back into his hand. 

“You’ve done it! You’ve done it!” Balin crowed, aiming a hard kick at the Pale Orc’s corpse.

“But at what cost?” Thorin asked, dully.

“What…what do you mean, lad?” Balin asked, his face suddenly grave.

Thorin could not answer; he gestured to the side. The others followed where he pointed and saw for the first time Kili lying dead a few feet away, his throat so deeply gashed that his head was barely attached to his body. Dwalin roared and fell to his knees, gathering Kili’s corpse into his arms. Thorin met Balin’s eyes and pointed again. Balin looked, though reluctance was written in every line of his body. When he saw Fili’s head, sightless eyes staring at the ragged clouds above, the old dwarf's face crumpled like a sheet of beaten tin.

“Ah, no! No!” Bofur wailed, the grief and horror so unlike his normal gaiety that Thorin was almost confused for a moment.

“Bilbo….” Thorin said, slowly, remembering.

Balin looked up at him, blinking through his daze of grief. “Bilbo?”

“Bilbo!” Thorin screamed, then, his voice raw. “He…he was here! He wounded Azog! He…he was wearing the ring! We must find him! Azog struck him; he must have fallen! We must!”

Somehow the others shook off their petrified horror at the urgency and command in Thorin’s voice. But before they could begin to search the torn earth for the fallen and invisible hobbit, the tide of battle caught up with them, sweeping through the small still place in which so much of terrible import had occurred. They were forced to move with it, and were torn away from each other in the fray.

“Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mênu!” Dwalin roared as he fought, heavy war-axes whirling.

But Thorin bellowed only, “Bilbo! For Bilbo!” as he charged back into the battle.


	6. The Halls Set Aside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin agonizes over the future of his realm now that his heirs are gone, but a dream clarifies things for him at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, guys. I intended this to be a much longer fic, with a lot of chapters, etc. But I sort of lost momentum on it. This chapter wraps things up in basically the way I always intended, but in a much more condensed fashion...

Thorin sat on the edge of the bed that had been his grandfather's, his head in his hands and his heart feeling as though it had been battered raw.

Tomorrow, they would bury Fili and Kili, his heirs and the closest things he'd had to sons.

And somehow, he had to sleep tonight, sleep without the nightmares of Fili's head rolling across torn earth and Kili's neck exploding in blood. Those nightmares had haunted his sleep since what they were beginning to call the Battle of Five Armies, which had come to a decisive end four days previously upon the arrival of the Eagles. Too late, though, too late...the line of Durin had been broken. The Eagles had not saved them.

A small noise in the adjoining chamber brought Thorin's head up sharply, nerves jangling. He was on edge still, unable to let go of the battle. He relaxed incrementally when he heard Bilbo humming lightly. It was just the hobbit, readying himself for bed. 

They had found Bilbo after the battle; the hobbit had been wearing the small shirt of mithril which Thorin had gifted him and had been unharmed, save for some bruises. He'd managed to slip through the fighting and away, and had been waiting for them at battle's end. Seeing him sitting quietly in a healer's tent, Thorin had found himself on his knees, apologizing wildly for having been unable to find him, to save him from the horror of this place. Bilbo had only covered Thorin's mouth with one small hand to stop his babbling and, his grief redirected to another outlet, Thorin had fallen weeping across Bilbo's lap. In that moment, as Bilbo stroked Thorin's hair and cried hot tears of his own, all had been forgiven between them.

And when Thorin had, later, brought Bilbo to his own chambers to sleep, none had questioned it. They had been together in these chambers since, resting and recovering. And when Thorin woke screaming in the night, Bilbo had been there to hold him, to ground him back in the reality of where he lay and with whom, and to stroke small clever fingers through his hair until he fell asleep once more. All of which made what he had to tell Bilbo tonight that much more difficult.

After dinner that evening, Balin had cornered Thorin in a corridor and directed him into one of the small privacy niches that were carved into the walls, dropping a heavy tapestry back over the entrance after them.

"My king...." Balin had begun, his old eyes tired and wary. He clearly did not want to say whatever it was he'd come to say.

"Out with it!" Thorin had snapped, not unkindly. 

"My king, your heirs will be buried tomorrow," Balin had stated bluntly, then. "Your line has been broken. Your sister is widowed and will not produce more children. Your brother is years in the grave. Your only heirs now will spring from your own loins. You must marry, Thorin. Bilbo cannot give you heirs."

If Thorin had not heard the tread of heavy boots in the corridor outside their niche, he might have roared, slammed his fist against the wall. As it was, he froze, trembling with the effort it took to hold himself to stillness. But Balin had been right, and they both knew it. Bilbo could not give Thorin heirs, only happiness.

Balin had seen the understanding in Thorin's eyes and had said, "It is not unheard of in dwarven history, you know, to have both a wife to give you heirs and a lover to give you...everything else?"

This was also true, and considered acceptable, even. Dwarves gave their hearts only once, and sometimes marriages had to be made for reasons outside of the heart. In such a case, both spouses were allowed...even expected!...to have another whom they turned to for love. Somehow, though, Thorin did not think hobbit culture was as forgiving of such things, and Bilbo himself was strong-willed and as proud in his way as any Durin heir. He would insist on being Thorin's only, or his nothing.

As he was thinking of this, rolling it over and over in his head and hoping for a different outcome, Thorin heard the soft slap of bare hobbit feet on the stone floor and looked up to see Bilbo coming out of the bathing chamber. The hobbit was wearing only his smallclothes and his bare chest was pale and gleaming. He looked beautiful and deceptively fragile in the firelight flickering in the hearth. Thorin felt his heart and his groin throb together at the sight, love and desire commingled.

" _Tomorrow_ ," Thorin thought, as he opened his arms to pull Bilbo into the bed. " _I'll tell him tomorrow_."

****

Thorin found himself walking through a long pillared hall of stone. He looked up; the walls soared and arched to meet a ceiling high above, a ceiling decorated with cunningly placed chips of multi-colored stone to resemble a cloud-scattered summer sky at sunset. 

The pillars were decorated, too, deeply incised with Khuzdul runes or displaying the royal sigils of the seven fathers of the dwarf kind. He saw the Durin sigil on one and smiled; the pillar was inset with glimmering opals that recalled the luster of the Arkenstone without rivaling it. 

Thorin slowly became aware, as he walked, that he did not know where he was. The hall was familiar, somehow, but it was not Erebor, it was no dwarf-hall he’d ever visited. And there were no dwarves in sight, but he could hear a low murmuring susurrus swelling and ebbing through the many branching side passages. He’d been to the sea once, walked along the Western shores of Middle Earth. The sound he was hearing now reminded him of the constant whispered conversation between the ocean and the wind.

A sudden loud clatter as he passed the Durin-sigil pillar caused Thorin to drop into a defensive crouch, his hand dropping to Orcrist’s hilt…but the sword was not there, strangely. Before he had a chance to parse this strangeness, he was nearly bowled over by two running figures.

“Uncle, uncle!” they crowed in unison as they threw their arms around him. Thorin’s heart lurched; he knew those voices.

“Fili? Kili? But…how?” Thorin said, his voice hoarse and thin, his eyes filling with tears.

“These are the Halls Set Aside, Uncle!” Kili explained exuberantly and Fili added, “The Halls of Mahal, where dwarf-kind await the Dagor Dagorath and the rebuilding of Arda!”

“I know what the Halls Set Aside are, lads,” Thorin said. “But…how am I here? I am not dead!”

“No, but the living may sometimes, by the grace of Mahal, visit here briefly in dreams,” Fili answered. “Or so we have been told.”

Kili stepped back, releasing his tight grip on Thorin to regard his uncle with a seriousness uncommon to the young dwarf. “Uncle, we had to beg Mahal to bring you here tonight, so you’d better listen to what we have to say!”

Thorin shook his head in wonder and bewilderment. “All right, lads, I’m listening.”

“You have to marry Bilbo,” Fili said, simply, and Kili nodded decisively. 

“We want you to be happy and Bilbo will make you happy!” Kili declared. “Yes, we know what you’ll say! But you’re _wrong_ , Uncle!”

Thorin just stared at them. “You brought me to the Halls Set Aside to tell me to marry the hobbit?” he asked, bemused. “Lads, you know why I can’t! The line of Durin…”

“…will go on, regardless,” came a booming voice from behind them. Thorin knew that voice and he spun to see his father Thrain, hearty and hale.

“Father?” he said, his voice wondering.

“Yes, Grandfather is here, and Great-grandfather Thror, and Uncle Frerin, and Thorin, our _father_ , too!” Kili piped up, his voice breaking a bit on the last few words. The boys had been so young when their father had died and now, at last, they could spend time with him. Despite himself, Thorin felt his heart swelling with joy to think of his boys reunited with their kin. He had lost them, but not forever. One day he, too, would walk these halls with them.

“Yes,” Thrain said, seeing understanding begin to dawn on Thorin’s face. “Death is just another path we must all take, and our separation, though painful, is not forever. You deserve happiness while you yet live, my son, rather than dwelling always on a needless grief.”

“But…the line of Durin…” Thorin protested weakly.

“Will continue, as I said,” Thrain answered. “There are other descendents of Durin who yet live….”

“…Dain?” Thorin asked, understanding suddenly. If Thorin had died with his nephews, Dain would surely have been given the kingship.

“Dain!” Fili agreed. “He’s of the line of Durin, he is a great warrior…”

“…and his wife is pregnant!” Kili finished. “We’ve been told it will be a son.”

“Name Dain your heir,” Thrain urged. “His son Thorin Stonehelm is destined to give rise to a lineage that will include the final reincarnation of our father Durin!”

“He is worthy, and his line will be worthy,” Fili said. “We are happy here, Uncle, though we will miss you and our mother and our friends. But we will see you all again one day. Be happy, Thorin!”

“Be happy, Thorin!” echoed Thrain.

“Be happy, Thorin!” Kili crowed.

****

Thorin opened his eyes and saw only the ceiling of his own room, the Halls Set Aside receding into a blurred memory. But the final words of his kin echoed through his mind. _Be happy, Thorin. Be happy._

He rolled onto his side, propping his head up on one hand and looked down Bilbo. The hobbit’s face was relaxed in sleep, seeming somehow younger but also stronger than it did when he was awake. Bilbo had a strength to him that was unlike any strength Thorin understood, running through the merry hobbit like a hidden vein of iron ore through friable stone. It was a strength that Thorin knew, suddenly, he would not be able to live without. He might not even be able to stand without Bilbo to hold him up, he felt. Reaching out one hand, he gently brushed a stray curl off Bilbo’s forehead. Without seeming to wake, Bilbo rolled toward him, making a low sound like a dove’s coo as he sought a more comfortable position. Thorin rolled to his other side so that Bilbo’s chest was pressed against his back. The hobbit’s arm snaked across his body and wrapped Thorin’s chest in a tight embrace and Thorin snuggled in against him like a kitten as they fit their bodies together.

“Thorin?” Bilbo asked, his voice sleepy but aware. “Did you have another nightmare?”

Thorin smiled, the first real genuine smile he could remember in many long weeks. “No. Quite the opposite, actually.”

“Mmm,” Bilbo sighed. “That’s good. You’ll have to tell me about it in the morning, if you remember.”

“Bilbo?” Thorin asked, tentative. “I…have to talk to you about something.”

“Yes, I know,” Bilbo answered, his voice more awake now.

“You know?” Thorin asked, then realized, “Balin spoke to you, too?”

“No, Dwalin did,” Bilbo answered. “He said you were going to tell me you had to marry some dwarf woman to get heirs and that I was to thump you until you came to your senses and realized what a terrible idea that was and married me instead. I think the exact phrase he used was ‘thrash him till his ass is red as dragon-fire,’ actually.”

Thorin was startled into a laugh. He felt the hobbit quaking with mirth behind him, too, and gave himself over to it, their shared laughter shaking the bed. Finally, Thorin managed to regain control.

“So?” he asked.

“So, what?” Bilbo answered, still giggling in little hiccupy fits.

“So, are you going to marry me?” Thorin asked.

Bilbo stopped laughing abruptly. “That’s it? _That’s_ how you propose to me?” he snapped. 

“Uh….” Thorin started.

“Do it right, or the answer will be no,” Bilbo demanded.

Thorin laughed deep in his throat. He sat up in the bed and Bilbo did too, crossing his arms petulantly across his chest and staring at the dwarf. “I’m waaaiting!” he exclaimed.

Moving slowly, Thorin pulled the heavy bead out of one of his braids, loosing the locks from their plait in the process. He leaned forward and gathered up the hobbit’s hair, carefully plaiting the locks together in the intricate braid only used by married couples. When it was finished finally…the hobbit’s hair was cursedly slippery, not at all like the coarser strands of a dwarf…Thorin secured the bead from his own hair into Bilbo’s new braid.

“Bilbo Baggins of the Shire, my heart is yours,” Thorin whispered formally, letting the heavy braid drop back to lay among Bilbo’s curls. “I will have no other but you, till the end of my days, if you will have none but me.”

To his shock, Bilbo produced an intricate silver bead from somewhere and leaned forward in his turn, gathering up the strands of hair Thorin had loosed and beginning a braid of his own. The hobbit’s fingers were clumsy, and he wore of look of extreme concentration, his tongue clenched between his teeth adorably, but he finished the braid at last and slipped the bead onto it.

“Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain, my heart is yours. I will have you,” Bilbo answered. Then he dropped his voice and hissed in an exaggerated whisper, “Dwalin gave me the bead and the braiding lesson, but I think I need some practice!”

Thorin ran his fingers over the lumpy, imperfect braid in his hair and rumbled with laughter. “I like it just the way it is, Bilbo my love.”


End file.
